Gone

Whenever the house of cards collapses there is time to write.

To fill the air with words where rooms with neatly laid desires lay in bed sleeping contently for the morning would soon come to awaken them.

Then the cards quickly flew through the air. Whistling by like lost feathers from a bird's hind.

When your homes burned in an arsonist's fire it left behind cinders for you to clench in your tensed fist.

All there is here is air.

Air in the wind. That blew an hour ago.
And made her love winter.

Now there's just the winter and the air.
But nothing else to hold her love.